From Sea to Shining Sea
by Ms. AJ Ninja
Summary: America has a dark side.


**Author's Note: Hey guys, this was written awhile back. I plan to work on all my other fics when I have a long break from school. Have fun!**

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.**

**This is also on Archive of Our Own: archive[ofourown] works/3618786 (take out brackets)**

* * *

It seems as though some people forgot what America could be, what he could do. They all seemed to forget that America could be _cruel_. That he already has been absolutely sadistic. He is a superpower in the geopolitical world; he is a force to be reckoned with. Though only a select few people seemed to see that. Japan has seen what he has done and he is still recuperating from the catastrophe, his children were dead, some didn't even have enough time to beg for their life and some begged for their death. Russia played the dangerous game with him, it was like an intricate game of chess. Their pieces was their people, the chessboard, the world. Russia could remember quite vividly the face of his enemy; cold and calculating. Very much unlike the façade America wears now, the mask everyone else seemed to fall for. Even Japan has fell for it, befriending America again. But Russia will never forget, he will never forget the words that was spoken to him, softly, quietly, _coldly._

_"I could decimate you, just one call and your country would be a wasteland. The ash would mix in with the snow. You could become a nation without its people. It could be beautiful, it could be mine."_

A year later the Cold War ended.

Did everyone forget the words _Manifest Destiny_? Those two words resounded quite clearly with America. He annihilated the Native Americans, slowly, because he wanted to conquer _"from sea to shining sea."_ He justified war because he wanted what was rightfully his, and it was his alone. He doesn't want that anymore (or so he thinks). His isolationist days were over now, though sometimes he misses the days where he didn't have to talk to some of his fellow countries. So that's why he acts like an idiot, who doesn't read the atmosphere, who spouts out broken, idealistic plans on helping the world.

He says he's a hero.

He is.

If he wasn't, where would the world be?

In the palms of his hands.

But the other countries don't know. So they insult him, belittle him, tell him he's an immature, little brat that's too young to understand. Always the same old, boring insults. America chuckles at that, apparently two hundred years is too young, but he grew to be one of the major superpowers in those years while it took some even more. He is where he is now because of his determination, as he likes to put it. He rebelled against the world's largest empire at the time just because of taxes, and he won. He won and he grew and grew and _grew_.

He has seen and heard of great empires rising and falling, and he doesn't want to become the shell of his former self because he fell— because he _failed_. He has seen the emptiness in Spain's smile, France's haunted gaze, and England's forlorn posture. They were the once the greatest empires to ever exist and now they're reduced to this, a shadow of what was once horrifically great. It's a sad thing to see. So he suppresses the want to conquer because he detests the idea of becoming a power hungry nation (though a voice in his subconscious said he already is one).

"—merica! America, you bloody idiot, are you even listening to us?" A thick London accent broke through his thoughts.

America forced his stupid grin on his face, laughed, and said, "Haha, not even dude, do you know how boring you sound?"

He could practically feel England about to blow up and China rolling his eyes from here. It's these days that make him wish for his isolationist period; he just doesn't think he could keep up the act for so long without bursting, or rather someone else bursting now that he thinks about it.

"Why don't you ever gro—!"

"Our _petit Amérique_ is still very young," France murmured to the Englishman, placating him. Though this was directed towards England, everyone else could still hear it quite clearly. America's eyes darkened for a moment, anger clear in his stormy eyes, but he quickly hid it from them. Though only Russia seemed to catch a glimpse of America's hidden self. Russia smiled and thought, _There's my old comrade._

"Dudes, don't worry the hero's here!"

"Stupid Americans, _aru_," the Chinese nation muttered angrily. America bit back the bitter response, letting it sit on the tip of his tongue, and hid his frustration behind his Hollywood-esque smile. He truly was a great actor, never letting any true emotions seep through, making everyone believe something fake to be real. Even his twin brother hasn't realized that he has been faking for some time. The American nation remembered vividly the time his dear brother, the brother that everyone thinks is the nicest person who can do no wrong, spent five hours listing everything wrong with him. America felt really hurt by it, his own brother cannot stand what he is even if most of it is fake.

_"You know, you don't have to be a fucking idiot, Al! I don't even know how you're a superpower with your stupid plans about saving the world. Robots? Really? You're making a fool out of yourself. And stop with the 'I'm the hero' act; face it, Al, you're not a hero and if you keep this shit up, you'll never be."_

He hates the fact that he cried after Mattie was done. He hates that no one sees the real him. But most of all he hates that Mattie doesn't think he's a hero, because after he said it, he doubts himself too.

America didn't know what to do. After so many years, some of the idiotic façade eventually became a part of him. Then there's another piece of himself that wants the world at his knees. And he feels stuck in the middle between two different personalities. But there isn't much he can do to help himself, so he continues living his life on a tightrope.

"Germany, dude, do you think we could take our lunch break? I'm starving," America said, changing the subject Germanic country rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded.

"Meeting adjourned," Germany stated firmly, then gathered his belongings and walked out the door with Italy at his side.

America wasn't lying; he was quite hungry and getting out of that argument was a plus. He smiled automatically and spoke to the others in general, "Hey, who wants to go to McDonald's?"

Most of them shook their heads and made up some flimsy excuse while others just said no. His smile turned genuine and he ran out the door to his car. Since no one agreed (usually one person does), he finally has the chance to go to his favorite family restaurant located near his home, about a ten minute drive from here. While McDonald's is filling, nothing beats the taste of a freshly grilled burger made by the sweetest old lady known to man.

He reached the familiar sign that read Ann's Pan and jumped out of his car into the homey restaurant. He raised his voice and yelled out a greeting, "Your favorite costumer's back, Mrs. Betsy!"

He waited a few moments and saw an aging lady walking towards him with a large smile. She gave him a motherly hug and said, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, "Alfred Jones, you haven't been by in a while. And I told you to call me Grandma ages ago."

"Hi, Grandma, still as beautiful as ever," he charmed and kissed her cheek in greeting. He saw her roll her eyes but grin.

"Ever the charmer."

"For you? Always." He grinned cheekily, quietly relishing in the moment of having his own _normal_ personality. No drama, no violence, no idiocy. God, he wishes he could be like this forever.

"I'll get you your favorite on the house," she spoke sternly. "You're like a grandson to me. I should be given the right to coddle."

Alfred frowned and noted to himself to leave a huge tip in the jar before he left. As they talked and ate, his worries seemed to dissipate. But as the clocked ticked closer to the time he's supposed to return to the meeting, he sighed and let the sleeve cover his watch again.

"Leaving so soon?" She asked, eyebrows raised. He nodded in resignation and pouted. "I didn't even get to eat your pie."

She patted his cheek as she stood up. "I'll pack some for you."

All his belongings in check, and a few hundred dollars short, he hugged his surrogate grandma (though he is older than her by many years) and drove away.

Grandma Betsy sighed as she saw four hundred dollars in her tip jar. She's seen the haunted look when he thought she wasn't there, it's like he's been through so many horrible things and all she wanted to do was tell him he's an angel, so she tells him in the form of friendly talks, motherly hugs, and food. She smiled sadly and said fondly, "Oh, Al, you're the sweetest thing to ever grace this earth. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Even yourself."

America contemplated on bringing the pie with him to the meeting and decided to go for it. It might strengthen his idiot cover and, huge plus sign, _pie_. He flopped onto his chair, fifteen minutes late and started eating, ignoring all the heated glares sent his way. He slurped the rest of his drink and spoke, "So are you gonna start soon or what?"

He felt an elbow dig into his side and he fought the curse that was climbing up his throat. HIs eyes flashed, anger only clear for a moment, before he stomped on the Brit's foot. He heard a not-so-quiet mumble of, _"Bloody fucking ow!"_

America smirked as his eyes met Russia's. The tension increased between the two and the other countries began feeling it as well. They all looked at each other warily, it felt quite similar to the Cold War era and that was a terrifying time for all of them. The foreboding threat that at any second their country could become rubble wasn't a great thing to feel.

It was the only time the other countries saw a glimpse of the frightening side of America. Even the glimpse was enough for them to shiver. America won't subject himself to worrying though; in a few hours time they'll probably forget most of this day anyway. As he got up to cleaned his scattered notes, he noticed that Russia was still staring at him with a pointed stare. He coughed and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

The larger man shrugged nonchalantly and spoke, "You can't hide what you really are, _Америка_."

He let his lips form into a twisted, wry grin before he said, tone precise and clipped, "Just wait, in a few years I won't hide anymore."

The bespectacled nation left before he could see the white knuckled hand of the Russian clenching chair in slight terror and realization. Russia despised what he thought of the world in a few years if the American stuck to his words. This is practically the only time he wished he was lying because he doesn't know if the world could handle the truth because—

Because there won't be a world if it was the truth.


End file.
